The Right Time
by Sigma Creations
Summary: "He looks through the window into her room expecting her to be sleeping. He'd finished his paperwork a little while ago, and even though it's past midnight, he'd found that he couldn't go home without checking to see if she's all right." Harry visits Ruth at the hospital on his way home on the night she fought off and killed the French assassin. AU story set at the end of 9.7.


**Some of the following dialogue you will recognise from Spooks. The rest is my own work. Many thanks to my betas The ChicaChic, NatesDate and r4ven3, and the rest of you for reading. Hope you enjoy and please review if you have a moment. Cheers, S.C.**

* * *

He looks through the window into her room expecting her to be sleeping. He'd finished his paperwork a little while ago, and even though it's past midnight, he'd found that he couldn't go home without checking to see if she's all right. She's standing near the window, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, looking out over the street below. He pauses and watches her for a few moments, unable to stop himself from indulging in this simple pleasure. He doesn't dare do this for so long at work; people would notice.

"You should be asleep," he murmurs softly. She doesn't seem startled to hear his voice and it makes him wonder if she knew he was there all along.

"So should you," she counters as she turns slowly to face him.

"Ah, well," he smiles tentatively, "too much paperwork."

She nods silently and takes a few steps towards him. "I couldn't sleep," she says. "I wanted to go home, but they wouldn't let me."

"Ruth," he sighs, "they're right. You've been-"

"I'm fine, Harry," she interrupts. "And since I can't sleep here, I'd be better off at home where I can at least get a good night's rest... What's left of it anyway."

He studies her for a moment, noting for the first time that she's dressed in her own clothes, and then says, "Are you? Fine, that is?"

"Yes," she nods. "Better then Keith Deery."

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"Well, he hasn't spoken since they brought him in and they've put him on suicide watch," she explains, walking over to the bed where her bag is already packed and ready to go. "But me," she adds, "I'm fine."

"Ruth," he murmurs softly, taking another step towards her, "you mustn't blame yourself. He was already unstable."

She nods and turns to look at him, her eyes on fire as she says, "Exactly. Unstable, weak. Not like us. There's no chance of us mourning our loved ones for years. No chance of us killing a man, having his blood spray in our faces and being struck down by the sheer horror of it. Far better to be like us, strong and stable, and dead inside."

"Ruth," he murmurs, his heart aching for her, for the pain she's experiencing and wishing that there was something he could do to ease her suffering. But she doesn't let him finish what he was about to say, interrupting the hollow words of comfort he was ready to offer.

"You think that I haven't forgiven you for George," she says, making him stop short and stare at her as his heart skips several beats. "That I still grieve for him, for Nico's loss, for the life I left behind... but the truth is much worse."

"What is the truth?" he asks quietly, his heart in his mouth.

She looks up at him and meets his gaze steadily as she says, "That I'm fine. That I'm ready to go back to work. That's what's worse. That I killed a man today... and I'm fine."

He stares at her for several moments unable to think of anything to say that would help her because, to tell the truth, though he understands what she's saying, he cannot agree with it. He cannot agree that this is worse. Being strong and able to put aside the horrors of their job in order to live a semblance of a normal life is not a bad thing. It's not something anyone can do, but it doesn't make them any worse than people like Keith Deery, people who grieve for years. He'd grieved for Ruth, he's still grieving for losing what could have been something wonderful between them, he's still grieving for the loss of his relationship with his son and daughter, the loss of his officers and friends. He just doesn't let it get in the way of living, of doing his job, and he can't bring himself to believe that it makes him a worse man that Deery.

"Since you're here," she says after a moment, "perhaps you can convince them to let me go home."

"Ruth," he murmurs, "I really don't think-"

"Please, Harry," she sighs, looking at him earnestly. "I'm fine. Truly. Take me home."

The phrase surprises him and his heart lurches in his chest before his mind catches up with the situation and the fact that she doesn't mean what he's thinking. "Okay," he nods, caught off guard by her words and agreeing to take her home against his better judgement.

* * *

"Thank you, Harry," she says as he closes the front door and places her bag down just inside the doorway. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

He glances at his watch, noting that it's already almost two in the morning. "Thank you, Ruth," he murmurs, "but I'd better get home and grab some sleep." She nods in understanding, but there's something in her eyes as he looks at her, a look of vulnerability that makes him pause and ask, "Will you be all right?"

"Of course. I always am," she smiles, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

He searches her face, suddenly feeling like he's made a mistake in bringing her home early. No matter what she says, what she went through must have been terrifying and more than a little traumatic. "Are you sure?" he asks, realising that he's repeating himself but unable to stop all the same.

"I'll be fine," she nods.

He smiles tentatively and murmurs, "Try to get some sleep, Ruth."

Then he moves towards the front door, but just as he's turning the handle to open it, he hears her whisper, "Don't go."

He stops and looks back at her in surprise, not sure if his imagination is playing tricks on him or not. "Ruth?" he asks uncertainly.

"Stay," she murmurs. "Stay with me, Harry."

Her gaze is soft, pleading, vulnerable, and he can feel his heart rate speed up as he takes a step towards her. She lifts her hand and places it on his arm, gripping the fabric of his coat gently with her fingers and murmuring, "Stay the night with me, Harry."

He swallows hard and his heart's beating so rapidly and loudly all of a sudden that he's sure she must be able to hear it. He's wanted to hear those words from her lips for so long, but he knows that tonight it's just the adrenaline talking. He knows the feeling, has experienced it himself many times before. A near death experience will do that to a person, will make you crave human contact, sex with anyone, and he doesn't want their first time to be like that. He still holds out hope that they'll come together sometime, and this isn't the right way for it to happen. He steps closer and reaches his right hand towards hers, lifting it from his arm and squeezing it gently with his gloved fingers. "Ruth," he murmurs, "You're overwrought and exhausted. You need rest. This isn't the right time..." He tails off, unsure as always of how to continue.

She stares at him for a moment and then pulls her hand quickly from his grasp, stepping back from him and nodding silently. "Good night then, Harry," she says.

He watches her for a moment as she withdraws from him, feeling a part of himself panic that he's made a terrible mistake again. He almost says something to try and take it back, but the rational part of his brain intervenes and all he murmurs is a good night before turning back towards the door.

His hand only just manages to close round the doorknob again before he hears her say, "You know what? Screw you, Harry."

Startled, he turns round to face her, unable to believe his ears. "Pardon?" he stammers.

"You heard me," she replies, her eyes flashing in anger. They stare at each other for a few seconds before she lifts her hand, gesturing towards the door and saying, "Go on, leave. Be a coward and leave." Then she turns and walks into the kitchen, leaving him rooted to the spot in shock.

He recovers quite quickly, feeling the anger bubble up inside him at the unfairness of the accusation, and he strides after her, stopping in the doorway to the kitchen and demanding, "Coward?"

She's filling up the kettle at the sink and ignores him, finishing her task before flicking it on and turning to face him once more. "Yes, Harry. Unless of course you're a sadist instead and are trying to teach me a lesson. Maybe you're showing me what it feels like to be rejected so that I can have a taste of my own medicine. Is that it? You want me to realise what it felt like when I refused to go out with you again all those years ago? Or when I turned down your proposal?"

"How dare you?!" he demands in indignation as he steps closer, stopping right in front of her and raising himself to his full height as he glares down at her. "How could you even _think_ such a thing?"

"Then what is it, Harry?" she asks and he sees the anger in her gaze slowly dissolve to be replaced by genuine puzzlement and hurt. "You said... you _told_ me that there will always be something else. You... you said I need to give you a chance..." she tails off and lets her gaze drop to his chest as she takes a step back and moves over to the cupboard, taking refuge in the mundane task of making them some tea.

He watches her quietly, feeling the anger of a moment ago drain away to be replaced by an immense fatigue. It's so simple from where he's standing, but she seems to have completely misinterpreted his words, actions, and intentions yet again, and he doesn't understand for the life of him how she always manages to get the wrong end of the bloody stick. He's so tired of these misunderstandings and all he wants to do is go home and sleep, but somehow he knows that, if he does that now, it'll probably spell the end of any chance he has with Ruth... ever. If he leaves now, she'll never let him get close again. So he sighs and murmurs, "Ruth... it isn't that I don't want to... be with you. I do... It's just that I know how you're feeling right now, what the adrenaline withdrawal does to your body. I've experienced it myself many times and I don't want when... _if_ we come together, for it to be like that."

She's silent for some time as she goes about making the tea. Then she places their mugs on the kitchen table and takes a seat, picking up her tea and sipping it quietly. He watches her warily for a few moments, wondering what else he can say to make her understand and deciding that he should probably just keep quiet and wait for her to speak. So taking off his gloves, which he pockets, and slipping out of his coat, he drapes it on the back of the chair and sits down across from her, picking up the other mug and murmuring his thanks.

"How exactly do you mean 'like that'?" she asks eventually.

"You know," he murmurs uncomfortably as he looks down at his drink.

"I don't," she counters. "I've never done... that."

He's momentarily stunned by her statement before he remembers that she's a desk spook and has little first hand experience of life threatening situations in the field. He clears his throat and replies carefully, "Needy, desperate, empty."

She takes a few more sips of her tea in silence before looking up at him and saying, "Maybe it would have been needy and a little desperate, but I don't believe it could ever be empty... not for me at any rate... not with you." His heart beats faster again, his breathing deepening, and it surprises him that she's not blushing as she tells him this. Then suddenly she pushes her chair back from the table and stands up, carrying her mug over to the sink, tipping the rest of her tea down the drain and rinsing it quickly. Then without turning to face him, she murmurs quietly, "I only wanted you near me tonight. I wasn't trying to seduce you. After everything that's happened, I just didn't want to go to bed alone." He winces at her words, feeling them like a physical slap to the face, but she doesn't let him dwell on them long before turning to face him and continuing, "And even if we'd ended up having sex, Harry, would it have been such a bad thing? I mean, what's the worst that could happen?"

Her frankness astounds him and leaves him on the back foot. "Ruth-" he murmurs uncertainly, but he doesn't get to finish whatever he was going to say; even he's not sure what would have come out of his mouth had she not interrupted.

"What are you scared of exactly, Harry? That I'll hate you for it in the morning? That I'll regret it? That you will? That I'll be disappointed? That it won't live up to your expectations?" He just stares at her in amazement, unable to respond as she lists some of his worst fears. But she doesn't wait for a response before she continues, "I can understand that you want it to be perfect: the perfect moment, the perfect place, the perfect time. But what if it never comes, Harry? What if _this_ is it? I could have died today, Harry. I could have died..." She pauses and he sees tears gather in her eyes and threaten to fall, but she blinks them away and murmurs quietly, "I'm going to go upstairs now and take a shower. I'd still like you to stay close tonight... so if that's what you want too, you'll be here when I come back downstairs. Otherwise, I'll see you at work tomorrow." She turns and walks back into the hall before he has a chance to respond, and he hears her mount the stairs.

Her words go round in circles inside his head, and he can't seem to sort out his thoughts for some time. What _is _the worst that could happen? She could hate him for it in the morning. She might want nothing to do with him afterwards. But she'd said that it wouldn't be empty... not for her... not with _him_. So she still has feelings for him, and tonight, she almost admitted to having forgiven him for George. If she can forgive him that, if she no longer holds him responsible for that, if she wants him near her, wants to sleep with him _despite_ that, then what's the worst that can happen? Even if she never wants to repeat it again, at least he will have the memory of this one night to cling to. Something real, not the fantasies and dreams he's been living with for so long. And perhaps that will make his life more difficult and seeing her at work everyday harder because he'll know exactly what they could be like together, but since when has that stopped him from doing anything? His life is already a disaster by most standards, and some days, it's unbearably difficult to just get up in the morning. So how much harder can it really get?

And what if one of them died tomorrow? How would he live with the knowledge that he'd turned her down when she'd needed him, wanted him? Because she needs him, even if it's just to chase away the daemons tonight, for a comfort shag, for the sake of feeling alive. She needs him, and if he's honest, he needs her. In truth, they both need the oblivion that sex can bring, so why not share that with someone they care for, love even, instead of a stranger? It's not perfect, not ideal, not the way their first time should be, but they've never been perfect. They've always misinterpreted and misunderstood each other.

He's still thinking when Ruth reappears in the kitchen wrapped in a silk robe and wearing soft, fluffy, white slippers. She stops in the doorway and looks at him, clearly still unsure if he's going to take up her offer of spending the night in her bed. "Do you have an extra toothbrush I could use?" he murmurs softly as he sets the mug he's just washed aside and turns towards her. She smiles and nods her head and he can't help the small answering smile that appears on his lips. "I could probably use a shower as well," he murmurs as he walks towards her, taking her outstretched hand in his, his skin tingling pleasantly at the physical contact, and letting her lead him up the stairs to the bathroom.

* * *

"Here you go," she smiles as she hands him a clean towel, a disposable razor, and a new toothbrush.

He takes them from her hands and murmurs his thanks. He notices her eyes linger on the toothbrush and he wonders if she's also hoping that it'll be his toothbrush, the one he leaves at her house for when he spends the night. She turns to leave the room and his eyes follow her until the bathroom door is closed. Then he proceeds to brush his teeth, use the loo, have his shower and shave.

A few minutes later, he comes out of the bathroom wearing his vest, underwear, and trousers, and smelling of Ruth's soap. He likes that smell on his skin and he finds himself hoping that soon he'll be smelling of a lot more than just her soap. Briefly he wonders at how quickly he's changed his tune before he remembers that Ruth has always been one of the few people who can change his mind with ease.

The bedroom door is ajar, so leaving his shoes and socks on the landing, he knocks lightly and enters the room when he hears her invite him in. He's expecting her to be in bed, but she isn't. She's standing by the wardrobe, putting away her clothes, but when he enters, she turns towards him, smiles, and hands him a coat hanger, saying, "You'd better hang up your suit."

"Thank you," he murmurs and proceeds to slide his shirt, jacket, and tie onto it. Then glancing at Ruth, he notes that she's got her back towards him, so he slips out of his trousers and hangs them up too. When he turns towards her, Ruth's already under the covers in bed. Feeling a little self-conscious as she watches him, he walks across to the wardrobe and hangs up his clothes on one of the handles before approaching the bed. "May I?" he asks softly.

"Please," she smiles, still watching intently as he slides under the covers and lies down next to her, unable to stop the sigh of contentment from escaping his lips as he rests his head against the pillow. "Better?" she asks with a smile.

"Much," he murmurs as he turns his head to look at her.

They watch each other for a few seconds in silence, and Harry can't help feeling that she was right; it's good to be here, in her bed. He rolls over onto his side to face her, raising his head for a moment as he punches the pillow into a comfortable shape before he lowers his head onto it once more. She smiles and turns over to face him, sliding her hand towards him and letting it rest in the middle of the bed between them. It's a clear invitation, he's sure, so he slips his hand underneath it and envelops it in his own, carefully avoiding pressing against her bandaged wrist. She smiles and lets her eyes drift shut for a moment before opening them again and saying, "This is nice. Thank you for staying with me, Harry."

"It's my pleasure, Ruth. I'm glad I'm here... with you," he replies, his voice involuntarily dipping into a low rumble as his brain seems to suddenly catch up with the fact that he's in bed with Ruth. His gaze drops to her soft, inviting lips and he finds himself longing to kiss her, but he knows that, if he does, he won't be able to stop, not when they're already in bed together. He looks back up at her eyes, noting the intensity in her gaze as she watches him and the slight change in her breathing. "Ruth?" he murmurs, unsure what she wants, needing her to make the first move here.

"Good night, Harry," she whispers, and lifting her head from the pillow, she moves her face close to his, causing his breathing to hitch. She presses a soft kiss to his cheek, and pulling back, she reaches round and switches off the light.

"Good night, Ruth," he replies and closes his eyes, still cradling her hand in his as he tries to suppress the surge of disappointment he's feeling. He can't blame her for pulling back, not after what he'd said downstairs, and truthfully, perhaps she's made the right decision. At the very least, this is progress, and who knows what the morning will bring. It takes him a little while, but his many years experience in dealing with disappointment and controlling his impulses pay off, and before too long, he's able to fall asleep.

* * *

Unusually for him, he's not woken by his own nightmare, but by someone else's. It takes him a moment to remember where his is and who's lying next to him, but when he realises it's Ruth, he springs into action, rolling over onto his back to switch on the bedside lamp before turning back towards her. A quick glance at the clock tells him it's almost four in the morning, meaning that they've had just over an hour and a half's sleep. To his surprise, however, he feels refreshed as if he's slept at least six hours. His eyes drop back down to Ruth and he notes that she's facing away from him and moaning incoherently in her sleep, so he bends his elbow as he props his head on his left hand, and reaching his right hand over, he gently strokes her back, softly murmuring words of comfort. His touch and voice seem to quieten her, and a few minutes later, she's calmed down. Then with a sigh, she rolls towards him and he has just about enough time to pull his hand away from her back before she traps it beneath her.

She rolls onto her back, but she doesn't stop there, turning all the way over until she's pressed up against his chest, her arm draped over his waist and her head resting against his left shoulder, her face turned up towards his. He looks down at her and smiles at the sight of her sleeping so peacefully against him. He's supporting the weight of his head on his hand, and he knows he's going to have to move in a moment. He can't stay like this all night, but he can't help indulging his desire to watch her a little longer, enjoying the feeling of pure bliss that settles over his heart at the sight of her asleep beside him, practically lying in his arms.

Soon his wrist and neck begin to protest the unnatural position he's lying in, so he gently pushes himself up, lowering his left forearm onto the bed and pressing his chest forward, causing Ruth to roll off him and come to rest on her back. He pulls back to look at her again and notices, for the first time, that her movements have twisted her pyjama top so that he can clearly see the curve of her breast through the gap between the two layers of fabric in front. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of her beautiful, creamy skin and he quickly reaches over her to pull up the covers, gently lifting them to her shoulders. He leans over her to straighten them out, propping himself onto his left forearm once more, and when he's satisfied that she's well covered, he turns his head to look at her. It is then that he suddenly realises how close her face is to his and he can't help himself; he dips his head down and presses a gentle kiss against her lips.

Her sharp intake of breath alerts him to the fact that he's woken her with his kiss, and as he slowly raises his head, he isn't surprised to find her luminous, blue eyes watching him. They stare at each other for several seconds, and he can't help but worry that he's crossed some line by kissing her while she sleeps. He waits with bated breath, watching her and trying to read her face. Next thing he knows, her hands have slid into his hair and are pulling him down towards her, and he can't help the groan that escapes him as their lips meet again.

His eyes slide shut as he feels her lips move against his, gently, sensually, softly pressing against him, and it's as wonderful as he remembers. His left hand finds its way to her hair, sliding into the silky, chestnut strands as he leans over her, still supporting his weight on his left forearm, while he lifts his other hand to cup her face, running his thumb across her cheek bone. He can feel her fingers pressing into his neck, across his back, sliding through his hair, constantly moving, exploring, exciting, until soon somehow there has to be more. He feels her lips part below his and he responds, letting his tongue venture out slowly, timidly, and as it fleetingly brushes against hers for the first time, he can't help exhaling heavily at the sensation. He grows bolder, his free hand following the line of her jaw down to her neck, fingertips brushing, nails scraping, palm pressing into her flesh, lower and lower, from her neck to her shoulder, her back, sliding round her side, and finally, cupping her breast through her pyjama top, feeling the exquisite softness he's dreamt of for so long.

Her hands are under his vest now, pressing, scraping, kneading, wanting, loving. How could he have almost walked away from this, he wonders. They were made for this, for each other. Almost without realising it, his fingers have made quick work of the buttons on her pyjama top and his fingertips are now brushing against her bare skin, stroking her softly, then more firmly, her moans of pleasure spurring him on and he can't get enough of her. He wants to gaze at her, kiss her, taste her, but he can't quite bring himself to pull away from her lips, the sweet ambrosia of her mouth. Her hands have pushed his vest up as far as it will go without him releasing her to pull it over his head, but he's unwilling to do that just now, not wanting to let go even for a second. And in any case, she appears to have given up on that plan as he feels her hands glide down his back and slide under the elastic band of his boxer briefs. He gasps, releasing her lips for a moment when he feels her hands grab hold of his bum and squeeze it tightly as she pulls him towards her, thrusting his hardness against her hip.

"Ruth," he moans softly before lifting his head to look at her. Her eyelids slide open, revealing her luminous, passion filled eyes. Her irises are thin slivers of the warmest blue he's ever seen and he can't help but tell her how he feels. "I love you, Ruth," he whispers. "So much."

"I know," she smiles. "I know, Harry. I love you too." She lifts her head, pressing her lips to his and pulling back to say it again. "I love you too."

He swallows in an effort to suppress the sudden surge of emotion he's experiencing, and he has to dip his head down, pressing his chin to his chest to hide the tears that have gathered in his eyes. "It's okay, Harry," she murmurs and pushes his vest up, adding, "Take this off." Grateful for the distraction, he sits up and removes his vest, wiping at his eyes with it in the process. When he turns towards her again, she's removed her pyjamas, top and bottom, and is lying in bed in nothing but her red, lacy underwear.

"My God, Ruth," he breaths as he stares at her, desire pulsing through him once more, pushing aside everything else. "You're exquisite."

"Come here," she murmurs and he obliges, lying down next to her and pulling her close. His mouth finds her neck, nipping, tasting, loving, hands and fingers travel down her back, probing, feeling, exciting. Lower and lower, his lips on her shoulders, her breasts, his fingers caressing her thighs, dipping under her knickers, rubbing, stroking her most intimate parts. He feels her writhe under his touch, panting words of love and encouragement as he pulls down her panties, trailing kisses down from her breasts to her stomach, dipping his tongue into her navel and licking her skin, always moving lower. He pulls back, resting back on his heels to look at her as her panties come off, and he gasps at the sight that greets him.

"Tell me you did this for me," he demands in a growl as he looks up at her face, his eyes searching hers intently.

"Of course it was for you," she smiles, her cheeks and neck flushing under his intense gaze. "I did it while I was in the shower. I hoped you'd decide to stay and I wanted to surprise you. I wanted you to know that this was never going to be just a quick, meaningless shag, or a one-night-stand."

He's lost for words, completely and utterly lost. She's shaved her pubic hair in the shape of a heart for him. "Ruth," he says eventually in a hoarse voice. "I have no words..." He falls silent again, unable to articulate anything.

"You'll just have to show me then," she murmurs.

She's right; he's going to have to show her. He's near the edge of the bed, so he stands up and pulls down his underwear before crawling back onto the bed, over her. Then he lowers his lips to hers, kissing her with all the love and passion he's always felt for her. Left hand on her breast, right hand in her hair, lips against lips, tongues swirling together, his erection grinding against her hip, his left thigh rubbing against her tender heat, her hands scraping and massaging, pulling him down onto her, demanding more. Raw passion, boundless desire, wondrous sensations cloud their minds.

She twists her body round, searching for him, he knows, wanting him inside her. He pushes her further onto her back, hovering over her as he positions himself at her slick entrance, nudging against her sweetness, dipping inside her gently, softly, repeatedly, making them both gasp and groan in exquisite pleasure. Soon he can hold back no more and he's driving into her, immersing himself in her, filling her to the hilt, finally claiming her for his own. He stills, resisting the urge to close his eyes, staring into hers, drowning in pools of liquid passion and love.

"I love you, Ruth," he murmurs huskily before the sensation of her inner walls squeezing him tightly spurs him into action. Together they build each other up, higher and higher, bodies pushing, rubbing, holding, thrusting together.

He thinks he'll never forget the look on her face when she tumbles over, gasping for air, panting heavily, his name a whisper on her lips, music to his ears. "Harry... Harry... Harry," she repeats it over and over and he lets go, driving into her, his face buried in her neck as he moans her name, gripping her to him tightly, desperately as he stills and empties himself inside her.

He feels the bed beneath him shaking and he rolls over onto his side, pulling her with him, still holding her close, never wanting to let her go. As the fog lifts from his mind, he realises that it isn't the bed that's shaking; it's Ruth. "Ruth?" he murmurs in concern, lifting his head and bringing his right hand to her face, pushing her hair aside. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, guilt twisting his gut as he realises she's crying.

She shakes her head, but continues to sob, her hands rising to cover her face. It occurs to him that perhaps this has nothing to do with him, that her climax has triggered a release of the tension she's been keeping locked up inside her from her ordeal yesterday, and perhaps, from even longer ago than that. He hopes that's the case; he desperately hopes that it's not something he's done. She tries to pull away, but he doesn't let her. He may not know quite what to say or do to comfort her, but he knows enough about women to realise that the last thing he should do is let her cry alone. "Don't go," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her hair. "It's okay. Let me hold you." He pulls her gently against his chest, running his fingers through her hair and is relieved when she accepts the support he's offering.

It takes her quite a while to stop weeping, and even when she does, she doesn't speak for some minutes. In fact, she's quiet for so long that he thinks she's fallen asleep. Eventually she begins to pull away from him and he lets her go, turning to the bedside table, retrieving the box of tissues he saw there earlier, and handing them to her. She smiles tentatively and sits up, murmuring her thanks, wiping her eyes, and blowing her nose, and he can't help but notice how beautiful she is, letting his eyes glide over the creamy, white skin of her back and side.

"I'm sorry," she says after a bit, setting aside the tissues she's used and the tissue box. "I don't know what came over me," she confesses. She turns to look at him, lying down next to him like she had last night and pulling the covers up to her chin.

"It's okay, Ruth," he murmurs. "I expect it was just the tension after what happened yesterday."

She nods and replies, "I was suddenly overwhelmed. One minute, I was so very happy... being with you like that, Harry... and hearing you moan my name..." Her eyes tear up again and she stops speaking, taking deep breaths and saying in an unsteady voice, "Here I go again."

He chuckles and reaches a hand over to her, wrapping it around her forearm and tugging gently. "Come here," he says and she smiles, shuffling her body closer until she's resting her head on his shoulder and he's stroking her arm delicately and running his fingers through her soft, chestnut hair.

"I've wanted this for so long, Harry," she whispers and it makes his heart swell with happiness to hear her say that.

"So have I, Ruth," he sighs. "So have I."

"I promise not to cry next time," she smiles.

"Next time, Ruth?" he asks, the hope in his voice evident.

"Yes, Harry," she replies softly and yet firmly. "Next time."


End file.
